I’m a creature of habit. Each morning I wake up, stumble out of bed and head upstairs to the dining room. There, over black coffee and whatever’s chewable, I read the morning paper. Shortly after I sit down, the doorbell rings, announcing the arrival of the housekeeper - Najma.

We trade a few generalities “How is your health?” “Are your in-laws visiting?” “Terrible weather we’re having!” “You look nice this morning!” as she warms herself by the fire. She then urges me to eat a proper breakfast for once while I try and push some tea and cookies on her. We’re both rarely successful. Najma then sets about her work as I bury my head in the newspaper, getting a head-start on my day’s work.

As always, I begin with the international pages. My eyes scan the headlines, stopping on silly fluff and human interest, skipping over the daily Pentagon briefings and political barbs. Having weaned my sleeping brain into awareness on nonsense, I return to the depressing Mid East datelines and gut wrenching editorials.

As I sit there, absently gnawing on yesterday’s roti, Najma busies herself around me. I rise from my chair holding my coffee, shifting this way and that to avoid her quick-moving brooms, mops and dusting rags.

When she passes behind me, she leans over my shoulder and looks at the pages spread before me. It’s part of the routine for her to ask me to tell her the stories that relate to the big color pictures. Najma only attended a few years of school. She can’t read Urdu, let alone English, though I swear she’s quicker than me by miles. News though, is something that’s gathered word of mouth and I have become a living newscaster.

Pictures of the tragic and the bizarre always catch Najma’s eye. Two days ago, it was a picture five women, holding themselves and wailing. Strange how the posture of grief is international. She clucks in concern and points to the women “What happened?!” Fumbling in still slumbering Urdu I answer “Their families have died. There was a big….”

I search my diminishing vocabulary. Really, if it wasn’t for my daily chats with Najma, I’d probably forgot all the Urdu I once knew. I revert back to Arabic, remembering Surah Az-Zalzalah. “….a big earthquake. In the lake, no, ocean.”

She nods knowingly. Najma spent most of her life in Karachi. She knows the power of the ocean.
“There was a water quake?”
“Yes, a big one. It hit many countries – Thailand, Somalia, Indonesia..” I begin rattling off the worst-hit nations, but none seem familiar to her. She cautiously repeats them after me “In-do-ne-zia? Where’s that?”
“It’s by Malaysia.”
“Hmm!” She knows Malaysia. Many local boys have gone there for work. It’s the ‘land of Chinese Muslims.’

“India…”
Najma makes a disapproving noise. Intolerance of India runs deep here and even amongst Pakistan’s most downtrodden is patriotism strong.
“Bangladesh, Sri Lanka... The worst hit were…, the little countries that are surrounded by water.” I make a mental note to ask my dad the word for island in Urdu.
“How many have died?”
“I think the count is over a lakh by now. More bodies keep turning up and thousands are missing.”
She gasps in horror. “All dead?! How? Wasn’t it in the ocean?”

I wrack my brains trying to think of Urdu for tectonic plates. No dice. I don’t even know the word for crust. My three years of Pakistani schooling were spotty at best, incomplete and only continued until the fifth grade. All I remember from my geography class were lessons about Eskimos in fur and the pygmies of Africa. Words fail me. I motion for her to follow me to my workstation in the basement.

Within a few minutes I’ve opened up BBC online and have a graph to help explain the destruction. I show her the red spot near Banda Ache that marked the center of the quake. Using wild gestures, my hands waving, I try to show how a sudden shift in the earth’s crust caused thousands of miles of water to rush forward. Science can sound crazy sometimes and I wonder how she’s taking my explanation.

“It made waves,” she nods. “Of course, when the earth moves the water on top has to move too.”
“Yes,” I hurriedly add, “And the waves just kept getting bigger as they went.” She stands behind me, her usually smooth brow furrowed. Still though, I think she cannot know the true horror of it. I want her to see and imagine what it must have been like. I open some satellite photos of a Sri Lankan coast.

“First the water moved away from the shore, see? All this …ocean ground… that was always covered with water was suddenly dry. People had never seen it before. They came to get a closer look at the fish that were flopping in the air. Then the water came back, faster than a car, in a waves 30 feet high.”
“30 feet?! Wait! It is 10 feet to the ceiling in here! Thirty feet is times three of ten. That means like a three story building!”
“Yes, like a three story building. It picked up everything on the ground and even above and went up to a kilometer inside the land and took everything back with it. Lots of women and children, because they could not run and could not swim.”
“Hai Allah, look at the wave!” she points white picture of swirling water. “It looks angry!”
“If you were outside in the streets, you were washed away. If you were in your home in a lower story, it filled full of water and you drowned. Whole villages have disappeared. Buses full of corpses have been found floating in the sea."

She looks terrified. “What could they do? You cannot run from that. From fire and water, there is no escape.”
I nod, “It must have looked like…like, um.. the Day of Judgment.”

Najma stands there, her hand over her heart, looking aghast, much like the women in the picture that began our discussion. I feel almost guilty painting such a vivid picture of death in her unclouded mind. What good would telling her do, I kick myself. Suddenly we both remember the time and she points out that I’m behind schedule for my editing. She goes back to the sweeping and I go back to my work.

Hours later, as I hurry through pages of new releases and government declarations, Najma calls out from the upstairs. “Ok I’m going!”
“Thank you Najma!”
“It is nothing. But sister, today is Friday sister. Don’t forget to pray your namaz. I have started praying again today. May Allah help me keep up with it. You never know when your time will come.”

”Verily in the heavens and the earth, are Signs for those who believe.” - The Holy Quran 45:3

(Still in shock. Brain’s not functioning. May Allah help the survivors of the Asian Tsunami. If you have the means, please donate here and here. Instead of writing a proper blog, I’m just going to post my response to Roti’s post relating to my shpeel on YOUFFs.)

The first question that most people ask after I grumble about a YOUFF encounter is “Well what were you wearing?” It shouldn’t matter. But for your information, we were all in hijab, and many of us in jalbab as well, and we weren't participating in the mutual glance stupidity.

I agree, that the hijab is one of Allah's ways of helping curb this sort of treatment/ behavior, but it is only half of the solution. The other half lies in the commandment to 'lower your gaze.' These boys, due to mob mentality and Pakistan's culture of blame, are getting off scot-free. They are not holding up their end of the bargain. We were covered, they were out of line.

I think what really adds to the problem here is that when a woman gets harassed and complains to the men in her family, instead of finding her tormentors and dealing with them, she is nearly always accused of bringing the treatment on her own head by having the gall to go out, dress a certain way or being without protectors, etc. I wear hijab and jalbab and carry myself with reserve and dignity, but even still, I have been told more than once to either wear niqab (which I've tried and isn't a solution) or simply stop going out.

This culture of blame is adding insult to injury and does nothing to address the root of the problem. Keeping women from public eye will not cure this social ill. At best, it reduces the YOUFF's chance for finding a victim, but when one is found, I would expect the result to be the same, if not worse. Instead, I think Pakistan needs to take give back to man his share of the responsibility.

So many times I've seen women harassed by YOUFFs, in plain view of other men, and no one says anything. Even men who are not guilty of YOUFF-ism are silent and guilty partners to the crime. They need to be aware and step up and say something whenever a woman is made a target of unwanted advances. After all, are we not all sisters and brothers? Would a man not like his sister or daughter to find a protecting friend if she was meted the same treatment? Men should bear in mind that the next victim could be their own loved one.

And fathers need to be more involved in the raising of their sons. The job of child-rearing, though mainly the honor of the woman, still needs to be shared with her husband. There are only so many things a boy will listen to from his mother, especially in a culture that puts little weight in the wisdom of women, like that of Pakistan. The rest must be taught through word and deed by his father, and I think respect of women is one of them. When a boy comes of age and begins to participate in YOUFF-ism, it is the job of his father and elders to set him right.

And I agree further Westernization is not the answer. The only difference between us and 'the progressive West' is that our YOUFFS are a bit more obvious in their behavior. America's men are just more discrete. Given the chance though, as in New York's Puerto Rican Day Parade of 2000, they revert to the same shocking and base vulgarity.

The answer is Taqwa - fear, love and awareness of God. As a whole, humankind is gradually growing unconscious. Muslims aren't immune from this sleep of the soul.

Abez and I have just finished hosting a bunch of my Amreeki friends. We had a good time of course, and it was great seeing my buds and playing tour guide for Islamabad.

We took them to the city’s limited sights, mainly shopping areas, and tried to show them what a cosmopolitan place this is. The city sells itself well, especially when one has spent the first few days of their vacation in Pakistan’s smaller cities, so we didn’t have to put much effort into the tour. My friends were simply happy to see sidewalks, find Doritos, and avail themselves of Amreeki-style indoor plumbing.

One thing though that sorta marred our outings and was completely out of our control was Chichorpan, or rowdy rudeness by random young guys, or YOUFFS as we call them.

There we were, trying to make Pakistan look nice, trying to show that our choice to move here wasn’t completely insane, and every time we went out we were subjected to the sort of debasing stupidity that would send most girls either running home, or running with a chapal.

No matter where we went – local markaz, bookstore, posh eatery or touristy spot – it seemed like our group of five girls was the main attraction. And no, we aren’t the kind that go looking for trouble. We were five covered, modest and disinterested Muslim women, out to see the sights, not be seen.

Once we found ourselves in the resort town of Murree I literally had to give my dear friends a ‘what to do and what not to do list.’

“Awright ladies, lissen up. We’re at a popular spot for field-trips and boy excursions. The dudes you’ll see here are generally idiots. No scratch that, idiot is too nice. They’re utter losers. They’re here to have fun, and as far as they’re concerned, we’re just part of that.

“First off, walk defensively. Look like you know where you’re going and you mean business. Keep your head up and stay aware.

“Don’t make eye contact with men. Look above and beyond them.”

“If you are being stared at offensively, try a loud and stern ‘Sharam Karo’ (have some shame).”

“If you’ve got an ‘ugly face’ now would be the time to use it.”

“If a group approaches you, give them plenty of space, lest they shoulder or bump into you.”

“If anyone says anything, or touches you, get a good look at them tell me immediately. I’ll take care of them.”

But there was only so much the advice gleaned from my years of living and visiting in Pakistan could do. We were still called out to, stared at, and followed. It was so sad; while I was trying to be a guide for the Murree experience, I was doing a more handy job of playing docent to the unsavory harassment experience.

“On your left you’ll see a group boys from a local high school. Notice the school uniforms and homogeny of size and age. They’re probably tenth graders, and judging by the color of their plumage, students of government schooling. As with all YOUFF, please pay special care not to look directly at them, lest you inflame their youthful passion.

“Now in the traditional courting ritual of the YOUFF first contact is made with The Stare. When confronted with the opposite gender – any will do, they need only be female – they respond with a bug-eyed look of unabashed fascination. A YOUFF will follow the every move of his target, often with mouth slightly agape, or wearing a crude smirk. At this stage, he seems to think himself invisible, and is unworried about the response his attention may get from the girl or her guardians.

“Depending on the boredom of aforementioned YOUFF or the appeal of his object of interest, several moves are traditionally made. The first, and the most common in the Blue-Throated Boy, is The Approach. In order to get a closer look, and perhaps stun the female with sheer proximity, the YOUFF will make a pass by.

“If the YOUFF is traveling in a pack, as he is wont to do, he will usually undertake The Approach with a number of his peers. As in many animals of the jungle, the YOUFF knows there is safety in numbers. If the female protests his attention, he knows she will be hard-pressed to single out her tormenter.

“The more ardent YOUFF will augment his approach with The Tune, where the pursuer sings while sizing up his prey. This action is common mainly in YOUFF hailing from lower income and impoverished habitat for whom Indian movies have featured prominently in social programming. The Tune varies from boy to boy, and often depends upon the features of the female of interest. For instance, songs of fair beauty for a light skinned girl, or references to ‘hirni jaisi chaal’ for a girl with a delicate gait. All, however, share a similar vein of hopefully requited love.

“Some YOUFF, more bashful than their peers, will find serenading the object of affection too risky. Perhaps they are uncertain of their singing voices. Instead, they will parry The Bump. Again, in a pack, the YOUFF will suddenly rush an unsuspecting female, and knock into her as he goes. This is meant to be a sign of his keenness. The Bump, though very popular, is typically shunned by the more refined YOUFF, aware that it tends to ruin his chances with his now bruised and stunned love.

“The bolder of YOUFF, generally the Alpha Male of his subspecies, will skip these last two steps, and go ahead to The Proposition. He wastes no time in appraising his object, and fears no rejection. He will gallantly call out to her as she walks past with a cultured “Oy!”. The less articulate, unhampered by vocabulary and communication skills, will simply make kissing noises or whistle at passing girls.

“Observers are uncertain of the desired outcome of the elaborate courting ritual of YOUFF. It has yet to come to fruition while men of science stood as witness. It has, however, been speculated that the years of indoctrination through Lolly/Bollywood cinematography has lead the YOUFF to believe that, when all goes well, his quarry will simply concede defeat, find herself dizzily and suddenly in love, throw him her heart, and begin dancing around the nearest tree. The latter part of this theory seems to be supported by the fact that the YOUFF tend to hunt in well-forested areas.”

Yes, the YOUFFS really are a subspecies of human, and as Chief Guide, I hereby declare OPEN SEASON. Happy hunting.

I got thawts.

Not thoughts.

Thawts.

With a tayt desi accent.

There you go.

My thawt the other day was: whoa, it’s been 10 years since I was a 12 year old. For me, 12 was it. It was THE AGE.

I tell you why.

*When you’re 12 the hardest thing in life is pre-algebra.
*There is no such thing as diet or calories.
*You couldn’t care less what adults in general think about you.
*They let you make cakes in the shape of continents and call it a geography lesson.
*Cartoons are still funny.
*Your only ambition is to go to Great America for the millionth time to ride their newest roller coaster.
*Sugar is pure wholesome energy.
*Your biggest worry is if your parents will let you sleep over at your best friend’s house for the third time in a week.
*When you’re at a candy shop, you’re a kid in a candy shop.
*Tragedy is defined as being grounded.
*Wanting to grow up and be a punk is a perfectly valid goal.
*The world is as big as your bike will take you.
*Life is an adventure and you are the superhero in your own comic book.

Time has marched on, and its taken life as I once knew it along with. Things are different now. I’m not sure they’re better. What do you think?

*When you’re 22 the hardest thing in life is – living it without making a complete mess of it.
*There is no such thing as full-fat.
*You’re constantly trying to care less what other adults think about you.
*When you make cakes in the shapes of continents, they say you need baking lessons.
*Cartoons are funny still, but only because you laugh in amazement at the things you once found amusing. Thundercats anyone?
*You’re biggest worry is… impossible to choose. You have too many.
*Caffeine is pure energy.
*There is no ‘only ambition,’ you now have an ambition or a goal for every part of your life – passing this exam, winning this award, getting this job.
*You’re a kid in a candy shop – in a pharmacy – I WANT THOSE VITAMINS!
*Tragedy is defined as dependence.
*Wanting to run away from your life and be a punk is a perfectly valid daydream.
*The world is big – hugely big – and you are but a speck in its vastness.
*Life is a bad sitcom and you are the comedy relief.

I dunno about you, but I’d trade 22 for 12 any day.

There are a number of things I no longer believe in since moving to our new house. Here’s a list:

Neighbors – We have tenants upstairs who came with “enough” children. That’s how many the father said he had when he came to ask to rent the upper story. Enough turned out to be five. For a two bedroom apartment. Yeah, enough would be the word I’d use too.

Kids - I’m not so much of a grinch to be completely put out by the arrival of a small horde of children. As long as they behave reasonably well and are polite, I’m good. And these kids really aren’t bad. The problem just is that they’re kids. They love to scream and yell and whoop and call out crazy things, stomp upstairs, harass the dog, and bounce on the pipes on the roof, which sends pulsating reverberations into my bedroom in the basement. It’s just giving me a nervous twitch, is all.

Chutney - But one thing I definitely give no quarter to is chutney making. The mother seems to think dawn is the best time to drag out her grindstone (sill batta) and start hammering away at chili peppers. I only discovered this today as I stood praying and tried in vain to ignore the mysterious methodical whams that were issuing from the upstairs. When I finished, I had to ask Abez “What the hell is THAT?!” From beneath her mountain of pillows and bedding came a muffled “chutney.” I guess the mom has done this before, and been asked to refrain from her violent domestic activities until AFTER the sun has risen.

Schools – We live pretty close to a fairly large government school. It’s never actually been a problem before. Until now.

The school is preparing for a sports day. If my memory serves me, this is when they make kids wear white and compete in traditional track and field games like frog hopping and tennis ball chucking. That’s how it was anyway when I went to school in Pakistan. Sports Day also includes a silly opening ceremony that involves arranging school children in the shape of circles, chand-sitaras and messages like “Love Pakistan,” “Pakistan Zindabad” and “Save us.” Think Olympics in China, minus talent, experience, aesthetics and entertainment.

Drums - All this is done to the beat of a giant drum. This part I’m certain of. How is that? Because every day, around 8am, they begin beating it. The sound echoes across the playground that divides us and finds its way into my bedroom where it ricochets off the walls and into my head. At this point I start having dreams of royal summons, executions, and invasions by drum-wielding aliens. Eventually, like the maddening drops from Chinese water torture, the beats destroy my rest and send me running out of my bedroom with vengeance on the mind.

Granted, 8am is a reasonable time to for them to wreck the peace in our neighborhood, as most normal people are up and at work, school or chores. But I’m not normal. I’m nocturnal. And I’m grouchy. And I want to go to sleep.

*falls off chair*

Once upon a time, I used to be a chatterbox. I could talk and talk, and never run out of things to say. When I was about four, one day my harassed momma, tired of my constant “Mommy listens!” sat down and decided to see if she could hit the bottom of my well of words. She let me talk. And talk. And talk. Uninterrupted. She tells me that there was no end, and she had to walk away.

I remember later, when I was about 10, I came with an explanation. No instructions, just an explanation. When I’d get started talking, and people would look to my siblings with “Where did this one come from?” I’d automatically answer “I ate a crow.” It’s an Urdu saying I picked up that seemed to explain why there were always noises coming out of my mouth. They would nod, understanding, and let me continue.

Over the years, this well has run dry. A while back, at one of the many faceless khandaan weddings, I was seated beside a cousin I hadn’t seen since we were children. When we were younger, I spent all day at her house, playing hide and go seek, which involved me poking through the netting and jumping through her veranda windows, and chucking produce from her mother’s terrace-top garden onto passersby down below. Oh yeah, and of course, we talked.

I said my hello, smiled, asked how she was, and sat. I sat there, for what felt like hours. She sat beside me, proud, decorated and polished, her eyes constantly scanning the crowds. I was me, strange, dressed for another time, and distant. She said nothing. I said nothing. Finally she looked at me and said, “You talked so much when we were little. What happened?” I thought about it, and answered slowly “I guess back then I said all that I had to say.” She eventually wandered off to find more a more entertaining companion.

Now I talk in fits and starts. Sometimes days go by before I actually engage any of my family in real discussion. I listen, of course, when they talk, but I rarely volley back with the role of orator. My own thoughts, I’ve already heard a thousand times before. They are tired, contrived or useless.

When I talk, to the few that I do, I wonder how strange it must seem to them. Thoughts collected for days and sometimes weeks simply rush out in a steady stream. It is mainly an exercise in thinking aloud, and always half-way through it, I wish myself silent again. Abez and I can stay up all night talking, but come the next morning, there is absolute quiet.

Emails have been piling up in my mailbox from friends wanting to hear from me. If I don’t respond right away, they sit there forever, until a chiding boomerang is sent from the same expectant friend. I sign into my Internet messenger, and quickly sign off, not wishing to hear that telltale trill of interaction. I wonder if its laziness or just stillness to the point of stagnation of whatever stream runs beneath my surface.

Why am I writing about this? Dunno. It only occurs to me after many weeks of forced blog entries and dry sessions before my computer. I realize it isn’t that I don’t have thoughts, ideas or instances to share. I just don’t feel like sharing. Being heard isn’t as important to me as it once was.

The door bell rang.

(It tends to do that.)

From the basement where I sat, I ran upstairs to make the horrid noise stop. It took a few minutes for me to find a shawl, which I hastily through on, hopefully hiding my dubious outfit – a hippyish kurti paired with my “old Korean lady” pants. The shawl wasn’t much of an improvement. It’s one from my vast collection of “why did Khala X give this to me?”

Poking my head out the door, I saw no one. I stood for a bit, and helloed loudly, hoping to locate the caller. There was no answer, so I wandered down the driveway and opened the gate. I looked left and right, but saw no one out of the ordinary, just the usual construction workers on their way to a nearby site and a bunch of kids playing something.

As I closed the gate, I heard a boy say “Aunty, one minute!” I almost didn’t stop. Sure, at 22 I'm probably on the day old side of 'girl', but damned if I’m an aunty. Didn’t he see my rockin kurti, and hopefully not my weird pants? But eh, this wasn’t the first time I’ve been called aunty, and I try not to be an age-conscious female anyway, so I spared the child his fate worse than death and responded.

“Yes?”
“Our frisby type thing ("frisby type chiz") landed in there somewhere.”
I looked around. There were potted plants, some broken plasticy junk that must have fallen out when the garbage went and a carpet reclining on the stairway, but no frisby.
“Um, frisby did you say?”
I looked around, wondering what on earth could pass as a frisby-type-chiz. Couldn’t have been the plants, too un-aerodynamic. Couldn’t have been the carpet, though it’d have been nice if our neck of the orient had something that validated the flying carpet nonsense. It was either the wood or the rubbish.
“Well, really, it’s not so much a frisby as much as it’s a broken plastic lid. It’s probably by the wall.”
“Ahah!” I answered, “Yes, there is a broken plastic lid here.”
“Yeah, that would be it. Thanks!”

As I handed passed over his ‘frisby-type thing’ I had to add, “And dude, I’m not an aunty.” The cheeky snot, about 13, looked up into my face as I handed him back his toy, and I couldn’t help but read his own mug as he did, which said “Sure you aren’t.”

The aunty returned to her work, laughing.

One of the worst places to be is in between. In limbo. Where you’re waiting for one thing to end and the next to begin. I hate that.

That’s how it’s been here for the past few months, and that’s how it’s going to be until we move to the UAE sometime within the next few months. I actually don’t mind too much my parent’s penchant for moving every few years. What I do mind is the time before the move – where you can’t make any long time commitments, where you’re trying to wrap up everything, and you’re looking to replace your old preoccupations with new ones.

I guess I’m a quick band-aid. Pain or not, I like to get things over with. If I know I have to do something, then I like to jump into it, head first. No point in wasting time. If I stand around waiting, I’ll shoot myself in the foot with baseless apprehensions. I guess this would qualify me as impatient.

The problem is, I’m in a family of slow band-aids. My parents have all the pulls of reality to keep them grounded – dad has his business, mom has her work, they both have the house. They’re rooted whereas I don’t think I ever bothered putting down roots. They sort of need helped along in getting disinvested and motivated.

Wisely, they channel my anxiety to leave with chores – lets clean out the storage room, sort out the books, research the city, find the paperwork, etc. Do I feel a bit like a horse with a carrot over their head, yes, but I don’t mind.

As I know we’re moving soon, I’ve already started packing up anyways, shedding my useless possessions and reading up on info that I hope will help with the shift. I’ve given my office my notice and have started answering classifieds in the Gulf. I’m already pulling at the bit.

I’ve been trying to get myself ready to go as soon as possible, but everything else isn’t lining up. For one, I don’t yet have a job there. That was supposed to be the easy part. I guess my qualifications are too Pakistan-specific. Or is it that no one wants to hire someone with the promise of “I’ll be there as soon as you’ve signed me on.” Or maybe what’s considered capable here isn’t there? I have no idea, as I’m getting no feedback.

Reality is a pain isn’t it? It grounds dreamers and sinks plans. I guess that’s what I’m always moving away from.